


The Cleansing Process

by LokiAndBaneGal



Category: Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokiAndBaneGal/pseuds/LokiAndBaneGal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a bloody night, the Joker goes home to tidy himself and his things. What happens when the Clown Prince of Crime comes home...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cleansing Process

He walks into the abandoned building, flanked by two henchmen who are limping and holding their bloodied employer's clothing and weapons. As much as the Joker loved to get blood on his hair, he didn't like the feel of caked on blood on his gloves and on his favorite knives and guns. Even a man as disgusting and vile in his habits still had his particulars.

The three of them walked up seven flights of stairs to the top floor, where a makeshift headquarters was built. The Joker shimmied out of his long purple wool coat and slid his gun holster off his shoulders and threw them in the direction of a desk in the corner, not exactly landing them on the surface. The roomy apartment is almost empty except for the desk, two small chairs, a cot with minimal blankets, a worn loveseat, and small television and antenna set. He turns around and directs the henchmen to leave his things in the corner with a flick of his thumb in the direction of a box of other weapons and things.

After placing his gloves, knives and two small pistols in the moldy box, the two henchmen looked at each other through wary eyes and shuffled to the exit hoping-praying-their employer didn't need them at all for the rest of the night.

"You can leave now," they hear the Joker say without turning even to look at them. They all but run down the steps and out the door into the brisk October night.

He relishes the moment alone and goes to collect the box of his things for sorting. He lugs it into the small powder room and lays it down the toilet. He fills the small rusty sink with lukewarm water and eyes the bar of soap resting in the soap dish.

He first grabs his gloves, puts them on and begins to wash his hands. Wetting them, then grabbing the soap, he lathers the gloves until white completely covers purple. Then he sinks them into the water, eliminating every trace of white until rough calloused leather shines through. He removes them from his hands and places soaking gloves over the side of the tub to dry.

Next are the two knives, the first actually a potato peeler but still-in a sticky situation-gets the job done. The second knife is almost sweet to think about if he hadn't just killed someone with it. It was the knife he was gifted when he joined the boy scouts at age six, an old swiss army knife his father had come across in an antique store. Whenever he uses it, he can think back to the day his father handed it to him, smiling as he did so. Now, son, only use this when you absolutely need to, and he vowed to use it only for special occasions.

He took a washcloth from the tub and soaked it in soapy water and began to swipe each blade down. First the handles, so shiny brass and metal shone through. Then he paid careful attention to the ridges and engraved words in each steel blade to make sure not a speck of blood remained. He laid them on the edge of the tub as they dried.

Lastly his two small pistols, both 9mm semi-automatics he acquired after politely disarming the guards at Gotham National Bank only the month before. The rent-a-cops only had the guns for a short time, only having been issued them after their first run-in with the Clown Prince of Crime a couple of years ago. These pea-shooters wouldn't have kept me back anyhow, but I applaud their showmanship, he smiled thinking to himself. He carefully took the clips out, inspecting the bullets, then rewetting the cloth he proceeds to wipe each gun with precision, paying attention to every nook and cranny any blood could have gotten into.

Now it was time for him get clean. He actually did hate this part. Leaving the makeup behind, the temporary hair dye seeping down the drain. Even if the makeup did look more menacing if he had it on for longer periods of time, he hated the way his face felt when he woke with a face full of greasepaint.

So he took his much-needed shower. This was his therapy. The burning hot water skimming over his aching limbs, running through his hair and erasing hours of lipstick and blood. He was no longer the Joker now. He was…human again. Just a man, no longer a monster, even if he still felt the adrenaline of murder coursing through his veins. If he walked right into the Gotham City Police Department, no one would look twice at him. Well, maybe to look at the Glasgow grin marking his otherwise pristine features. But to look at him in this state, you would never think this man threatens this city on a weekly-if not daily-basis.

He turns the now lukewarm water off, climbing over the gloves and weapons on the tub's ledge and walks into the wide open room of apartment, not bothering with clothes when no one can see into the dust-caked windows. Usually nights like this, he would settle in and watch bad TV and fall asleep on the couch, legs and arms draped over the small loveseat that was barely able to contain his lanky body. But as he could barely hold his eyes open, he opted for the cot.

He all but falls into bed and takes a deep breath in and sighs as he exhales. It has been a very long day, and he deserves the rest he is about to get. He wipes a hand down his face, and his hand halts over the scar on the right side of his face. The skin is still numb there, no feeling whatsoever, even if he can still remember when it pulsated and throbbed as he oozed blood from the scars and spat blood for hours after the…accident.

But he doesn't want to go to that place in his mind, not tonight. Tonight, he sleeps. And tomorrow…well, tomorrow is a brand new day. And for Gotham's-and Batman's-sake, I hope they're ready, he thought as his eyes slip shut.


End file.
